Fearless
by ink and ashes
Summary: Elizabeth Parker is a genius with a strange birth defect. Roswell's resident extraterrestrials learn that a person's humanity is not determined by their genetics. Somewhat AU.
1. 1-0: Prologue

_Fearless_

**1.0: PROLOGUE**

My name is Elizabeth Parker and I am six years old.

I do not know the purpose of this journal. It was given to me by mother at the behest of my therapist, a child psychologist by the name of Fredrick Nasedo. He believes it will help me with my 'disorders'. I've yet to discover the meaning of that word. Of course, he convinced my well-meaning mother that a journal will help me see things clearly, will 'fix' me. Father often defers to mother's opinion, as it is believed that one female will be able to empathize with another. Perhaps she can. I will try to make the task easier for her, but it is difficult when I do not know what it is they require of me. When I attempted to glean the necessary information from Grandmother Claudia, she instructed me to be myself.

Thus, I am forced to endure weekly sessions with Mister Nasedo and told I must write in this journal at least once every two weeks. I wonder if they believe me ignorant, or if they truly think I do not know that every word I write will be analyzed.

It matters little. If it helps to reassure mother and father, then I will do what is asked of me.

x

My name is Elizabeth Parker and for a long time, I have been a burden to my parents.

They are wonderful people. I am warm when I think of them and I wonder if they are warm when they think of me. Sometimes, I think I make them cold and I try to fix it, but I do not know how. My photographic memory has its limits, but my earliest one is clear. I was three and Aunt Marilyn was telling my father that there was something strange about me. It was then that I realized that all was not well.

"She should have spoken by now," she said.

My father shook his head. "She'll speak when she's ready."

I stopped counting the individual fibers of thread of the red throw rug and looked up at my father. I studied him, wondering if this was why he and mother always seemed so subdued in my presence; their false cheer is easy to see through. I try to mimic them, try to learn from my mistakes; if I shake my head 'no' to ice cream and my mother deflates, I know to nod 'yes' the next time. I do my best to remember these lessons.

But perhaps I had it wrong. Perhaps they just needed to hear my voice.

So I walked over to my father, effectively silencing my Aunt Marilyn from her talk of my strangeness, and clamor onto his lap. He always seemed to enjoy when I did that. When I open my mouth, I make sure to look him in the eyes; I want him to know, without a doubt, that I am speaking to him.

My voice is without inflection, but it sounds clear enough. "If you had wanted me to speak, father, I would have done so sooner, had you asked."

Now, when I hear father telling people that my first words were an entire sentence, I hear pride.

The warmth in my chest, always present with my parents, hums louder.

x

My name is Elizabeth Parker and I do not believe in god.

I do not believe in magic.

I do not believe in the stories mother reads to me at night.

Mother says she 'has faith' that I will get better. She says she prays things will get easier for me. I had not known I was sick, or that I was having a hard time. I asked her to elaborate, once, but the expression she gave me is the one that means I have made her sad. I do not wish to make mother sad, for it seems like an unpleasant emotion to endure, but I do not know how to fix it. She says I should 'have faith'.

I do not know what faith is, but I do not think it is working.

x

My name is Elizabeth Parker.

x

My name is Elizabeth Parker and today, I twisted my ankle.

Mother had moved the recliner in the living room twenty-two centimeters to the right in order to vacuum. I tend to sit on my balcony when she cleans, as the disorder interferes with my coherency. My hunger lured me to the kitchen, which is on the opposing side of the living room, and the minute change in scenery did not allow me to progress. Unknowingly, I had stood frozen on the vacuum's cord and when mother jerked the machine forward, she inadvertently unbalanced me.

It is my own fault, really. Those twenty-two centimeters halted my thought processes and I did not react as I would have, normally.

Still, mother was distraught and father was worried. They kept asking me if I was 'okay', to which I replied that I was fine. I spoke an untruth and do not know why. Walking has become cumbersome since then, however, and it was mother who realized that I had damaged my ankle. Her sadness became deeper and her eyes began to leak. Father explained that, sometimes, when people are very sad, they 'cry'.

I do not know why mother was so sad. It hurts, but pain does not last a very long time.

x

My name is Elizabeth Parker and I do not believe in faith.

x

My name is Elizabeth Parker and I have not been able to write for several weeks.

As suspected, mother and father closely monitor what I write my journal. They must have retrieved it while I was sleeping one night, but they did not replace it correctly. Instead of its usual spot, I awoke one morning to find my journal seven-point-three inches from the edge of the nightstand due east and the spine two-point-six degrees off from its usual one hundred and eighty degree angle, stuffed haphazardly between Lewis Carroll's _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_ and Harper Lee's _To Kill a Mockingbird_. Which, might I add, was not in the alphabetical order I usually keep it in.

I'm not entirely certain what happened, after. Something twisted and snapped and then I was sitting in the middle of my room, rocking back and forth as those things called 'tears' kept falling out of my eyes. My room had been completely demolished; the bookshelves had been turned over, pages ripped out of several books, my lamps had been smashed, my bed was off-kilter, my mirrors were broken. My dressers were on their sides, bleeding fabric.

I still do not understand. I knew that I had done this, but I am confused as to why.

Mother and father were not happy about the mess I had made, but they did not punish me for it. I was certain that they would. Instead, they tried to help me clean. I told them that I would rather do it myself, please, and requested that they notify me when something is taken or placed within my room. They indulged me and agreed, and even let me stay home for the day. They gave me some orange juice to further placate me; sunshine in a glass always helped me whenever I was troubled.

It took me hours to fix my mess.

When I found the journal amidst the clutter, most of the pages had been torn. I could not touch it. When my therapist asked about it, I could not talk about it.

Thirty-four days later, father realized the problem and rectified it by gifting me another. My teacher must have told him about the hundreds of _My name is Elizabeth Parker_s scribbled along the margins of my classwork, but it has become such an easy routine that I find I cannot stop it. Thankfully, father did not lecture me.

I can read and write again.

x

My name is Elizabeth Parker and today, I turned seven.

Mother and father threw a party for me, for which I expressed gratitude. In school, I was taught to say 'thank you' when someone performs a service for me; I had not known that, before. When I said it, Grandmother Claudia started to clap with an overabundance of enthusiasm and mother and father seemed much happier than usual.

Perhaps it was this that I was lacking all along? Gratitude?

I must say thank you more often.

x

My name is Elizabeth Parker.

x

My name is Elizabeth Parker and my mother and father are keeping a secret from me.

They have been whispering a lot when they think I cannot hear, things like, '_another one?'_, '_like the Evanses?_', '_maybe the Guerin boy?_', and '_you think it would help?_'. These whispers began shortly after the third time I destroyed my room, and something strange twists in my chest.

I wonder what they're up to.

x

My name is Elizabeth Parker and I'm beginning to realize that, as Mister Fredrick Nasedo once said, there is something wrong with me.

x

My name is Elizabeth Parker and I have discovered the secret my mother and father have kept from me.

She was here when I came home from school. Mother and father were unusually excited.

"Lizzie, meet your new sister, Contessa."

She is small and blonde and very pale. Her eyes are blue. She looks like those dolls mother used to give me and then threw away when she realized I never played with them.

I wonder where she came from, where she's been, and why she has waited until now to come home.


	2. 1-1: Eve

_Fearless_

**1.1: EVE**

My name is Elizabeth Parker and I do not like Halloween.

It began last year, when Tess felt ready to try public schooling. I think our parents believed it was necessary for Tess to develop social skills, which I seem to lack. I know it had nothing to do with her education, as I was very diligent in her tutoring; there were many times that our parents simply left the teaching to me and I felt a glow of something pleasant every time Tess learned something new. Mother and father would praise Tess and I, often expressing their pleasure that my little sister kept making leaps and bounds in terms of progress.

It helped that Tess could glean information from my mind, making it easier for her to understand me when my words confused her.

In the beginning, that trick of hers just made things worse; I, apparently, think differently than most people, so when she skimmed the inner walls of my cerebrum, poor Tess had gotten a headache her first week home. She refrained from doing so for a long time after that, but when it was obvious that she did not know how to speak, I asked her if she would like to try again. She'd been too afraid to try it on our parents, afraid that they would reject her and throw her away. I did my best to make it easier for her, thinking of simple things that she would need to know, and it became less demanding on her to establish a link between us. I cannot project into her mind, but she can project into mine in a one-way telepathy. I did not and still do not mind the intrusion, for I trust my sister.

When she was first adopted—a notion that had taken me a while to understand—she was lost and confused, even more so than I. They'd found her in the desert without a voice, scared and alone. Even basic tasks, such as using the lavatory, were foreign concepts to her. A victim of negligent parents, or perhaps a cult, it was speculated, but it mattered little. I had become an older sibling and with that came responsibilities; I had to help little Contessa in any way that I could and as someone who had trouble with silly things other people took for granted, I had wondered if I was up for the task. After all, I needed a therapist and constant vigilance. How could I possibly help someone even more damaged than I?

I quickly learned that I had been horribly wrong. My new sister was not at all damaged, just different.

Very, very different.

She asked me, once, why I did not tell on her when I found out about her powers.

"You're my sister," I had replied, and it had been enough.

Aside from her ability to enter my mind, she could heal things, change things. Molecular manipulation on a subatomic level. I had discovered that by accident, when I'd mistakenly grabbed a strawberry milkshake. I'm terribly allergic to strawberries in any form and the instant the creamy drink had slithered from my straw and onto my tongue, my throat had immediately closed up. My distraction would have resulted in my death had Tess not found me struggling to breathe, flailing alone in my room; she'd pulled away my clawing fingers from my aching neck and with a single touch, the pain was gone.

Tess, as curious about the world around her as I, had asked what had happened. When I explained, she'd changed my milkshake from acrid strawberry to innocent vanilla. Enraptured, I'd barely remembered to thank her for saving my life. It was the first time I'd ever seen her smile.

"You're my sister," she said, and I understood.

I wanted to smile then, too. I just didn't know how.

I was constantly torn between exploring as much as I could about Tess' amazing abilities and making sure no one, not even mother and father, found out she was not entirely human. I did not want anyone to take her away and leave me alone again. Mother and father could adopt another child, but I only wanted Tess. I did not and still do not know if Tess feels the same about me, if she would be happier with someone else as her sister, but in a moment of selfishness, I decided I did not care. No other could take her place and no other would ever take mine. I would make sure of it.

She grew much in the three years she'd been with us and while I am not the perfect role model, I think I've done a sufficient job ensuring her intelligence was up to par. True, she'd rather watch cartoons and play dress up than read a book, but she was a quick learner. I was proud of my little sister and that warm feeling I thought was reserved for mother and father expanded to encompass her as well. No matter the outcome, I will protect her.

Luckily, I was held back a year in the first grade due to various reasons, so I would be present if she needed help acclimating.

As it turned out, Tess did not need my help at all.

While she held my hand the entire way to school, her nervous litany of half-thought worries screeched through my mind, as she had a tendency to lose control of her powers during heightened emotions. I bore it easily, rationalizing her behavior and fear; I did not understand it, but I bore it. She held my hand tightly as we took those first steps towards the third grade together, held on even tighter when we marched through the front doors. I saw no reason to fret and I told her so, as she was a sweet girl. I knew she would succeed where I had failed.

At first, the barrage of people had given her a panic attack. We stayed in a bathroom stall until she'd calmed down. She told me that she had not been prepared for so many different thoughts, different _voices_. I did my best to comfort her, giving her some of my lunch. Tess loved sweets. By the time we made our way to class, Mister Fitzgerald informed us that we were very, very late, but that he'd excuse us this once. Looking back, I suspect that he'd been told of our particular circumstance. I think it also helped that we were not the only ones tardy that day, but I had not yet realized the correlation between the two events; when two boys and a girl who looked just as frazzled as my poor sister entered the class, I had no idea that there was a connection.

I was, of course, correct in my original assessment. On the very first day of the third grade, Tess found three other children just like her. They were different, special children. Not in a derogatory manner, like when my peers called me 'special' with a sneer, but _actually_ special. They were a gifted, _extraordinary_ kind of special. I don't think I had ever seen her so happy before.

But she has not held my hand since. At lunch, I still sat alone, though a little closer to the other children than before.

I lost a piece of my sister that day and I think the small ache in my chest is sadness.

On the heels of her special friends came three others. They were not like my sister, but they were interesting nonetheless. I knew them only by name, as I knew everyone in our school, and they knew me by the rumors. A few days after Tess had discovered her new companions, the other three approached.

Her connection with the otherworldly children inspired both she and the other blonde to branch out and they blended in seamlessly. Strangely, they even tried to interact with me on a few occasions, but I do not know how to handle people outside of my family. Perhaps my sister's easy smile lulled them closer, made them believe that I was not as strange as everyone thought I was. Still, they came and left and returned, flocking towards little Tess with ease while maintaining their own friends on the side. As the days turned into weeks, Contessa Parker thrived among our human—and not-so-human—peers. Three has been her favorite number since.

Her not-so-human friends fascinated me, but the feeling was not mutual. Once they learned that I was not like them, that my sister was my sister only in name, they had no interest in me.

"Lizzie won't tell. She's not like us, but she's still special," Tess was quick to defend one day in the cafeteria.

It pleased me to hear her say that. She, father and mother were the only ones who called me 'special' without malice. At home, I was the special daughter, the one that was treated differently, the one that the family tiptoed around. At home, Tess was, for all intents and purposes, a normal, happy little girl that they adored. I found it ironic that, in school, the roles had been reversed; my sister was the special one and I was the simple human.

It was a welcomed change. I made no attempt to hide my curiosity, staring at my sister's friends whenever I had the chance. I made them uneasy, especially the Evans siblings, but the Guerin boy, Michael, had no qualms about returning my stare. His were the only pair of eyes that would meet mine and while Tess spent her time getting to know the only other people on the planet who could understand her, Michael and I would stare at each other for hours. I'm almost certain he wanted me gone and out of the picture, but I'm also certain he knew that I would stay by my sister's side, no matter where she went or what she did. I suppose trying to quietly intimidate me was the only way he knew how to deal with me, the 'interloper'. Isabel and Maxwell Evans, the other two non-humans, were shy and withdrawn, but opened up easily with my sister.

I, of course, was a different matter.

Odd, though, that Michael did not glare at the other three humans that occasionally invaded their bubble. Maria DeLuca, especially. True, she inspired my sister to new heights of bubbliness, but I was surprised her constant chatter and ignorance of boundaries did not rate as a higher offense than my existence. Alexander Whitman, on the other hand, was an awkward boy that tagged along with Maria because he did not seem to have many other friends, and Kyle Valenti, the Sheriff's son, was a popular boy that had friends all over the school. Sean DeLuca, Maria's cousin, liked to tug on my braid or knock the books out of my hands, but did not join us very often; he was a nuisance I had learned to ignore long ago.

Once our parents learned of my sister's social success, mother and father were eager to have the Evanses, the DeLucas, the Valentis and the Whitmans over as much as possible. Michael's parents were curiously absent. Someone must have given them the misconception that they were my friends as well, but if it made mother and father happy, I would not dissuade them. After school, Tess and her group would occupy a booth in the alien themed diner my father had established a few years ago and slurp down their free milkshakes. To keep up appearances, I would force myself to sit on a stool in the Crash Down and did my homework there instead of in the sanctuary of my room. Some days, I managed. Some days, I hid in the break room. Others were harder and I ended up in my room anyway.

After two months, I gave up sitting in the Crash Down altogether; father kept asking why I did not 'sit with my friends' and I was tired of lying to him.

When Halloween came, Tess and her merry band, including Sean, were all dressed up and ready to collect as much candy as they could. The Evanses, Diane and Philip, volunteered to chaperone us and while I wanted nothing more than to march back up my steps and continue reading my newest book, I grabbed my plastic pumpkin and trailed behind the others, feigning enthusiasm.

"Where's your costume, dear?" Diane Evans had asked me.

I glanced down at my simple dress. "I'm wearing it," I answered.

The Evans matriarch frowned. "What are you supposed to be?"

_Normal_. I shook my head and walked a little faster, as if I had been trying to catch up to Tess.

The night was long and my stamina woefully short but thankfully, it finally came to an end. Our pumpkins and bags were bursting with candy and when we returned to the Crash Down, my mother ushered us all into our living room. I felt uneasy having so many people in my sacred place, my _home_, but Tess was practically glowing in her princess costume. This was her first Halloween with friends and I promised myself that I would not ruin it for her.

But I failed.

Even now, I can barely recall what had happened, but I remember my mother and the Evanses drinking coffee as they watched the children count their candy on the living room floor, futilely warning them not to eat too much. I sat at the dinner table with the adults, organizing my earnings by size, shape and color, which was frustrating given the wide variety of sweets before me. I would end up giving nearly all of it to Tess, anyway, but it gave me something to do in the meantime and looking at the disorder in my pumpkin had given me a headache. Instead of categories, I began to build, carefully balancing the candies so that not a single edge was out of place.

"What're you building, Lizzie?"

I did not look at my mother, concentrating. "Shah Jahan's Taj Mahal." I add another piece.

"You know who Shah Jahan is, Liz?" Diane Evans asked with a hint of disbelief.

I nodded, distracted. If I had not known who he was, I would not have mentioned him. "_The sight of this mansion creates sorrowing sighs, and the sun and the moon shed tears from their eyes,_" I recited from memory. I poked a candy two millimeters to the right. "_In this world this edifice has been made, to display thereby the creator's glory._"

There was a beat of silence in which I felt eyes on me. I didn't pay them any mind.

"What grade is she in, Nance?" I heard Philip Evans ask.

Mother gives a puff of humor. "Third. Same as your kids."

"Doesn't seem like it."

"I know." Pride colored mother's voice. "My little genius."

I ignored the rest of their conversation. Sean walked over to me, munching loudly on a chocolate. He would not act out in front of the adults, I knew, so I did not anticipate him reaching out to tip one of the candies from the lower tier out of place. My little Taj Mahal did not crumble, barely staggered, but that single sweet nudged askew threw me off. It was no longer even with its kin, no longer where it belonged. Alienated and off-kilter.

"That wasn't very nice, Sean," admonished Diane Evans. "Apologize."

I stared at the displaced treat with wide eyes. I heard nothing over the roar in my ears. Something screeched inside of me and I snapped.

Coffee mugs and the scorching liquid within went flying, porcelain shattering on the hardwood floor. The table was flipped, my chair tossed as far as my strength would allow. There was screaming and crying and people trying to grab me. Mother reasoning with me. The next thing I remember is wailing in my father's arms as he carried me to my room, his voice soothing my hysteria.

That night, I learned what shame was.

After that, my sister's friends were even less keen to be around me. They sat further down the cafeteria table and when we had recess, I hid behind the old tree, keeping Tess in my line of sight but making sure I was out of hers. Sean's words became more biting, but it did not bother me. Out of them all, only Alex still tried to communicate with me during the rare times we were in close proximity, and Michael was the only one who'd look at me without immediately looking away. My sister did not abandon me and I appreciated that she'd go out of her way to eat lunch with me, and only me, at least once a week. Still, I made myself scarce as much as possible so that her friends did not abandon _her_.

I wish I could apologize, but this has happened before and will probably happen again. I truly had not meant to scare anyone away, to embarrass my sister.

That day, I learned what it was to regret.

This year, our parents allow me to stay home. I don't get to pretend I'm normal anymore and I am fine with that. I hide on my balcony, secretly watching Tess and her friends as they embark on yet another night of sugar and mischief. She is a faerie this year and it suits her, her sparkling wand waving around in her glee. Beside her are Isabel and Max, one a princess with the prettiest tiara I have ever seen and the other a pirate with an eye-patch. Kyle is the cowboy poking Alex with his toy gun and the other boy is a vampire with red lipstick. I do not know what Maria is, but she's wearing a pretty white dress and has flowers in her hair. Sean is in some kind of green suit and I think he is supposed to be an alien. Surprisingly, it is Michael who brings up the rear as what I believe is a prince.

He turns his head and spots me, as if feeling my gaze. I suppose, being what he is, he might have.

Quickly, I duck down and hide inside my room. Michael and I have never spoken, but I hope he does not mention seeing me.

I trust that he will not.

x

x

My name is Elizabeth Parker and sometimes, I cry without knowing why.


End file.
